


warm me up and breathe me

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Eloping, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Jeyne POV, Jeyne Poole Deserves Better, Jon Snow Deserves Better, Mutual Pining, One Shot, R Plus L Equals J, Romance, Secret Relationship, Slow Burn, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 00:41:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20331190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Jeyne Poole never looks twice at Jon Snow until she finds that she suddenly can't look away.King Robert never comes North, and the Starks remain in Winterfell. Along the way, an unexpected pair find themselves drawn to each other.





	warm me up and breathe me

**Author's Note:**

> This is loosely set in the same verse as my fic 'can i go where you go' in which Jon Arryn exposes Cersei's kids as being illegitimate before he can get killed off. Please bear with me and be kind! I've never written for Jon/Jeyne before but they really just wormed their way into my heart while I wrote this.

i – a beginning

Jeyne counted the days until the annual harvest feast that year, praying to herself that some lordling or another would look her way and fall madly in love with her at first glance.

At just twelve years old, it was unlikely that her father would want to make a match for her yet, but her delusions of romance were heightened by the dusty book she had found in Lady Stark’s collection in the library with Sansa just three weeks prior. It was a love story about some knight and his Targaryen queen that Jeyne had never heard about before, but the descriptions of their sweet, stolen kisses seemed to awaken something in both girls about their futures.

Sansa would likely wed the heir to some grand castle in the South— and if she was lucky, the prince himself— and leave Winterfell forever, but her own future was a little less certain.

Once it came, she found that she couldn’t stop thinking about it; love, marriage, romance, all of it. As the lords and ladies of the North danced around the Great Hall, Jeyne found herself among a group of girls. Sansa had been swept into a dance with Cley Cerwyn, smiling demurely up at him as she did with any boy who spoke to her that night. Oft, there was nothing but love and affection between the two girls, but now, Jeyne envied Sansa for how she carried herself, graceful and perfect and able to draw every eye in the room with naught but a smile.

“I might marry Robb someday,” Jeyne asserted as if saying so could make it true.

She had been noticing him around the castle more lately, fancying that he was quite handsome now that he had grown into his once gangly limbs. He was horsing around with Theon Greyjoy and Jon Snow to the corner of the room, the three of them laughing raucously as they got drunk on spiced wine. It might have been the first time she had ever seen Sansa’s half-brother smile.

She felt her cheeks warm at the skeptical looks thrown her way by the girls in her company, and mortification swept over her as Arya interrupted her fantasies with the cruel reality of her station.

“You can’t marry Robb,” the ten-year-old protested with a snort. “He’s going to be Lord of Winterfell someday. Stewards’ daughters don’t marry _lords_, Jeyne. Even I know that.”

The words stung deep.

The little smile Beth hid behind her hands felt like a betrayal of its own, and Jeyne had never hated little Arya Underfoot more than she did at that moment. Who was she to tell her who she could and couldn’t marry when she couldn’t even stitch a triangle without messing it up?

_I could do_, Jeyne wanted to say but bit her tongue, unwilling to embarrass herself further.

Eventually, the conversation shifted toward Arya’s plans to make a grand escape and Jeyne fought not to sigh aloud. Sansa was much better company to keep and would have surely entertained a conversation about love and marriage without food dribbling down her chin.

She curled her lip as Arya guffawed, half-eaten greenery gushing from her mouth as Beth impersonated Septa Mordane, glancing at Jeyne unsubtly to see if she found her japes funny.

Spitefully, Jeyne turned her nose up at her and ignored the way Beth’s face fell at the dismissal.

It served her right for laughing at her.

Moodily, Jeyne lifted her goblet to her lips and took a long sip of the wine she had largely ignored for the night. Mayhaps attempting to marry above her class was shooting too far and daring too much, but she was so in love with the very idea of love that it pained her to think of not getting to experience romance for true; Sansa loved her, though, as a true friend and companion. Surely, she would put in a good word for her to Robb regardless of station.

She found herself looking at the boys once more, but this time her eyes wandered past Robb to his other brother with the pretty hair and soulful eyes. He was smiling faintly as the Stark family’s ward made crass gestures with his hands that had Robb doubled over with laughter.

Jon Snow.

Many a time had Jeyne listened to Sansa complain about her half-brother, but never had he managed to turn her head like he was doing now. His curls shone underneath the candlelight, and for the first time in all of their years of knowing each other, his smile made Jeyne’s heart skip a beat. Mayhaps she didn’t need to look too far at all for the man she had been dreaming of.

Bastards weren’t beholden to the same responsibilities that lords were, though they were said to be the most depraved of anyone in highborn society.

It was hard to envision Jon Snow as anything but gallant as he set his chalice down and watched the festivities unfold, only leaving his corner to ruffle Bran’s hair as he zoomed past the trio.

As if sensing her eyes on him from across the hall, Jon’s gaze flitted up to lock directly on Jeyne’s, seemingly confused by the intensity of her stare when she had done nothing but ignore him for most of their childhood, mostly out of loyalty to his half-sister. She had always been polite, as befitted a lady, but never had she entertained more than a cordial greeting with him.

Willing herself to be brave, Jeyne smiled at him and her heart swelled when he returned it in full.

ii – a thought

It had been weeks by the time that she first broached the subject of betrothals and marriage with Sansa, asking after what would become of her once Sansa became a lady of some holdfast somewhere, or if the Gods willed it, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Septa Mordane had left the room to relieve herself in the privy and Arya had all but fallen asleep in her seat, unused to their early mornings (or, the more likely alternative, that she had nicked Theon’s bow hours earlier to practice archery unbeknownst to her parents and septa). Jeyne stared down at the half-sewn weirwood tree that she had been stitching with dissatisfaction.

Something about it was wrong, but she couldn’t place her finger on what it was.

Once Sansa and Arya—if anyone would even be willing to marry the little beast— were married off, what purpose would Jeyne even serve in Winterfell? She was not so foolish as to think she would live in this castle forever, and her days of living in luxury felt numbered with each offer of betrothal that Lord Eddard received and subsequently denied for his eldest daughter’s hand.

Sansa looked at her with such surprise that she felt silly for asking the question in the first place.

“You’ll come with me, of course,” she stated as if the answer had been obvious the entire time.

“But you’ll be married, Sansa,” Jeyne furrowed her brows confusedly. It would degrade her to become a handmaiden to her closest friend even if she was the queen, and the notion of it spiked a deep fear within her; what if she was doomed to the life of a spinster, alone and wrinkled with no one to love her and no children to fill her home and hearth, if she even had one?

“My father will find a match for you,” Sansa declared as she stuck a pin into her embroidery hoop, putting the final touches on the pink flowers surrounding the delicate wolf she had been sewing. Her talent far outmatched Jeyne’s in nearly everything it seemed, but she couldn’t find it in herself to be resentful of the girl. She was lucky that Sansa even considered her to be a friend, let alone was willing to speak for her in that regard. “I’ll speak to him if it worries you that much, Jeyne.”

“You will?” Her brown eyes met Sansa’s hesitantly, wondering if they could be sisters for true someday. She squirmed in her seat beside the window that she had sneakily reserved so that she could watch the boys sparring outside in the courtyard while they sewed, feeling absolutely wicked for eavesdropping on them in such a way. They were sweating despite the cold of the weather, seeming to exhaust themselves by swinging their practice swords at each other.

Jon parried to the left as Jory Cassel made a lunge for him, as lithe and graceful as a dancer. She wondered what it might be like to dance with him and realized that she had never seen him try his hand at it in public, her only experience with it having been their lessons a few years prior.

She had been partnered off with a disinterested Theon while Arya stood on top of Jon’s feet in an attempt to rebel against having to attend any sort of ladylike or courtly lessons at all.

In her wildest dreams, she would envision him entering a tourney under a Stark banner, riding valiantly with her favor tied to his arm until he placed a crown of yellow roses upon her head and declared her his Queen of Love and Beauty for the entire realm to hear and cheer on.

What a sight they would be; a Stark bastard and a steward’s daughter, noble, proud, happy…

They had scarcely said a word to one another since the feast, but Jeyne couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away from him whenever they broke their fast together. His dark hair and grim demeanor seemed to tell a story of its own, a melancholy lingering beneath his eyes that only entranced her with him further. He was beautiful, Jeyne thought, and so she admired him from afar.

“Of course,” Sansa beamed at her and put all of her worries to rest with the authenticity behind the action. “You’ll have a castle of your own someday, Jeyne, with a husband who loves you more ardently than even Florian the Fool loved his lady Jonquil. Do you know why?”

Jeyne tore her eyes away from the object of her affections to shake her head at her friend.

“Because I say so,” Sansa proclaimed, a giggle accompanying her words as if to remind them of their youth, and of all the time they had ahead of them before they had to worry about something so adult as marriage. “And I would never lie to someone so dear to me as you.”

iii – a mistake

Jeyne was thirteen when Jon Snow broke her heart.

It was her own doing, of course, but she hadn’t known the fury she was to be met with when she neighed at Arya Horseface as she passed her in the hallway on her way to the kitchens. Sansa was planning on nicking some blueberry tarts from the stores and Jeyne had, of course, taken up the responsibility of making sure the cooks didn’t catch them this time.

Sansa was the culprit, and Jeyne was the lookout; it was a game they always played.

She disliked Arya immensely sometimes, with her scabby knees and rotten attitude; she thought Jeyne was an airheaded idiot and had told her as much whenever they shared lessons.

“What was that?” Came a familiar voice from behind Jeyne, to which she stiffened in her place and squeezed her eyes shut. Jon loved Arya, perhaps more than anyone else in the world, though Jeyne couldn’t fathom _why_. When she didn’t answer, his footsteps echoed off the castle walls as he approached Jeyne, rage bubbling over in his eyes when he turned to face her. “Did you just-”

“Jon,” Arya cut in fiercely as if emboldened by her brother’s intervention. “It’s alright.”

“No, it isn’t.” Jon took his place by Arya’s side and the sight of it pierced Jeyne through her fragile heart, shattering every fantasy she had once had of Jon harboring a similar fondness for her that she had for him. “Did you just _neigh_ at my sister, Lady Jeyne?”

Her throat seemed to close up at the sight of him so angry with her, hot tears prickling at her eyes though she didn’t dare let them loose in fear of further embarrassment.

“Yes,” she whispered, eyes unable to focus on him for more than a second before she stared resolutely at the ground, ashamed that she was being called out in such a manner by a man she held to such high regard, albeit in private journals that she stowed underneath her bed.

“Why did you do that?” Jon demanded of her, though he likely knew the answer already. Sansa had once said it around Theon Greyjoy, to which he barked out a laugh so loud that she could have sworn the smallfolk in the winter town could hear it. If someone as big-mouthed as Theon knew about the nickname, she doubted that it was a secret. “Did you think it was funny?”

“Yes, my lord,” Jeyne responded softly, wanting nothing more than to take back what she had just done—wanting nothing more than for Jon Snow to forget that she existed as he typically seemed to do outside of this instance. “I did. I’m sorry for it. It was unbecoming.”

He calmed somewhat at her words, seeming to realize that she was on the brink of crying now that she finally responded to him in full sentences rather than one-word statements.

“Don’t apologize to me,” he crossed his arms over his chest, a storm of conflict brewing in his eyes as he nodded at his younger sister. “She’s the one you ought to be apologizing to.”

This time, Jeyne didn’t hesitate to look at Arya.

Gods, how she hated her.

“My apologies, Lady Arya. I shouldn’t have made japes at your expense,” Jeyne spoke stiffly, attempting to keep the emotion out of her voice. She _was_ wrong, she knew, but having Jon point it out hurt her more than she could have imagined. “I hope that you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me.”

Arya simply shrugged and went on her merry way after shooting Jon a grateful smile, not bothering to accept the apology as if she knew that it didn’t mean much when it was coerced.

Jon turned back to her as his sister left and opened his mouth to stay something. Unable to bear to hear him scorn her further, she merely curtseyed at him. “If you’ll excuse me,” and scurried off, her chin wobbling emotively as she got as far away from Jon Snow as she could manage.

iv – an apology

“Lady Jeyne,” a voice cut through her stroll along the pathway leading to the glass gardens. She spun on her feet, wide-eyed at the sight of Jon Snow approaching her with all of the awkwardness that he typically carried himself with. “Might I speak with you for a moment?”

She prepared herself for the worst, figuring that Arya must have gone running to him with tall tales about Jeyne’s mistreatment of her; ever since their confrontation in the halls, she had scarcely even glanced at Arya, let alone called her any names.

There was no reason for him to be speaking with her.

“Of course,” Jeyne responded primly, a gust of air causing her blue cloak to billow around her legs. She met Jon’s eyes with only a hint of resentment lurking behind them for the last time they had spoken; though he had every reason to defend his little sister, she had hoped that their first time truly speaking would be a bit more… romantic than what had ended up happening.

He had the decency to look a bit sheepish as they stood in the murky dirt beneath them, the breeze cooler than she was used to—perhaps winter would come sooner than expected.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out as he glanced around him. “I didn’t mean to upset you before.”

She stiffened. “Did Sansa say something to you about it, my lord?”

He looked confused at the question and Jeyne felt daft for even bringing it up in the first place, though she didn’t know how he would come to that conclusion were it not for Sansa scolding him about the matter. She had gone running to her right after the fact, fuming and teary-eyed, complaining for hours on end about Arya in an attempt to make herself feel vindicated.

“No,” he shook his head. “Arya told me you hadn’t spoken to her since it happened.”

Jeyne blinked with confusion but didn’t dare speak.

Jon continued, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck as if he wasn’t sure what to do now that they were speaking for one of the first times since they were children playing in the snow with no idea about what class or legitimacy was. “I was a bit harsh with you, I know. I just wanted to apologize. I… I worry about Arya, my lady. And I appreciate that you’ve left her alone since our conversation, but I know that I could have done it more… delicately had I taken the care.”

This was the most Jon had spoken to her, perhaps ever, and Jeyne wasn’t quite sure how to respond. Instead of prolonging the conversation further, she merely bowed her head in acknowledgment. “It’s no matter, Lord Snow. Thank you for your concern.”

When she left him standing there, she could have sworn that he was frowning.

v– a goodbye

Years passed before they had a conversation of note. When the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms was put to the sword on charges of incest with her brother, the Kingslayer, it seemed that Sansa’s dreams of becoming a queen someday were shot to the ground with Joffrey Baratheon’s banishment to the Wall.

The king had remarried and there was little to no hope of finding a proper match beyond a man of the North who was of an age with her, a second or third son from a Southron house, or a Southron heir twice her age. None of those options had appealed much to Sansa, who had spent weeks being consoled by her companions and mother once the news of Joffrey’s legitimacy—or lack thereof—had been announced.

Eventually, the former prince was all but forgotten.

A year passed and Jeyne fell madly in love with Torrhen Karstark only to find that he had been sent to Winterfell to court Sansa instead. The man was as unsuccessful in his affections as Jeyne was, sent home after spending just a moon’s turn in the castle.

Another passed before Lord Stark arranged for the girls to travel to Bear Island for a time, and then White Harbor after that, and Karhold after that, in hopes that they might see more of the North for themselves.

Sansa had been decidedly unimpressed with the plan, still consumed with dreams of flying far away from her home to greener pastures.

Their horses were prepared for them and Jeyne had almost cried out in horror that they weren’t to be riding in a carriage on the journey.

Mayhaps their fathers meant to harden them to the real world, but Sansa was too sullen to complain much, pouting over finally leaving Winterfell only to be forced to see more of the North rather than heading South as she had dreamed.

The family prepared themselves for their departure, Lord Eddard opting to send Robb with them to see more of the region that he would one day rule over, and Ser Rodrik to ensure that nothing went awry during their travels.

When her lord father assisted her in climbing atop her horse, newly saddled and recently broken in, Jeyne chanced a glance back at Sansa, who was tearfully embracing Bran as if she would never see him again. She peppered kisses all over his plump face even as he cringed away as most boys his age did at any form of doting attention from their mothers or sisters.

Beth had her arms wrapped around Jory as he spoke sternly to his uncle from across their respective horses, not having mastered the technique of riding enough to get her own steed.

Vayon Poole patted Jeyne’s cheek lightly and wished her the best in her travels. “I bid you to be safe, sweet girl,” he informed her gently, more emotive than he typically was. “Make me proud.”

She nodded obediently, knowing that there was no way she could ever cause much trouble with so many escorts even if she wanted to. “Yes, Father. I swear I will.”

He smiled tightly at her and retreated, taking his place behind Lord Eddard as Robb helped Sansa onto her horse. None of the Starks saw her off, considering that they were so preoccupied with saying their goodbyes to Sansa, Robb, and Arya to pay a steward’s daughter much mind at all.

Once the gates were opened, Jeyne glanced backward to see Jon waving his siblings off from beside a brazier, far enough away from Lady Catelyn that she wouldn’t protest his presence there.

She wasn’t quite sure that her fascination with him had ever fully been extinguished, especially with a distinct lack of men around the castle to invest her interest in; Robb would never be an option for her, and Theon was a mess in his own right. Jon, though…

Jon was handsome, and kind, and chivalrous.

He might be baseborn, but what did that matter to a girl with so few options and a heart yearning to love someone?

As Jon waved at Arya and then Robb, and even at Sansa, Jeyne met his eyes so quickly that she wasn’t even sure it had happened. His lips were still drawn into a smile as he turned his gaze back from her to Arya, waving at his younger sister until they were fully out of his sight.

vi – an evolution

By the time that Jeyne’s sixteenth nameday came, she was a woman grown with so few marital prospects that she overheard her father arguing with Rodrik Cassel about wedding her to Jory, of all people. Jory, who was handsome in his own way, but was nearly ten years her senior.

She had gone weeping to Sansa about the match, sobbing at the prospect of such a simple life, though it seemed that her concerns were unfounded.

Jeyne dreaded the conversation for weeks, often going out of her way to avoid the courtyard in fear that Jory might see her and approach her about the match, though such a discussion never came. The matter just faded away as if it had never been discussed at all.

Lord Stark seemed determined to keep his children within his grasp, so shaken by the politics of the South that he neglected to even consider betrothing Robb until he was nearly twenty years of age, though his bride-to-be had yet to be decided. While Lady Stark pushed for marriage to a Southroner, namely Margaery Tyrell and Desmera Redwyne, Lord Eddard favored a Northern girl like Alys Karstark or one of the Manderly girls for Robb to reward his bannermen for their loyalty.

Through her time at both keeps, it seemed that marriage was the last thing on Robb’s mind; he preferred to galivant around with the girls’ brothers rather than spend any time courting them, much to their dismay.

She could feel their disappointment whenever he would seek out friendship in Daryn Hornwood rather than any of the girls whose fathers had clearly set up the visit hoping he would consider taking one of them for a wife.

Jeyne herself took quite a shine to Alys Karstark and Wylla Manderly specifically, quite enjoying having more female companions by her side, and she was disappointed to find that their visits couldn’t be extended any longer than they already had been.

It was less romantic and fanciful than she had expected it would be, but couldn’t complain about the experience.

The issue of courting and betrothals was left unspoken.

The journey back to Winterfell took nearly a moon’s turn and in that time, Jeyne pondered her prospects from a more realistic standpoint than she had ever done before.

At six-and-ten, she tried not to think on how her own prospects were so limited that they relied entirely upon Sansa Stark. She knew now that she would likely marry a bannerman of Sansa’s future husband, probably a man from the South if Lady Catelyn had her way and married her eldest daughter off to Lord Willas of Highgarden or Lord Renly of Storm’s End.

It wasn’t the worst fate Jeyne could be beholden to, but she hated the thought of having so little autonomy in her life that her future depended entirely on whoever another girl married.

vii – a gamble

As they grew older, Sansa and Jeyne had only gotten closer. Even Jeyne and Arya formed a fragile friendship on Bear Island, Dacey Mormont being the bridge that connected all three of Winterfell’s daughters together. It had been odd, to become friends with a girl that she once loathed so fiercely, but they seemed to come to an accord when riding was in question; Sansa never liked the sport and thus, Arya and Jeyne always partook in the activity together.

She found herself atop a speckled horse, bundled up now that winter had come with a vengeance.

Arya had ridden far ahead of her, practically racing Bran in an attempt to best him at yet another activity now that her prowess on the bow and arrow was only contended by Theon Greyjoy anymore, who had curiously chosen to remain at the castle during the latest hunt.

Jeyne didn’t question it, not much caring for the man’s company anyhow.

Her mare pranced along the wooded path of the wolfswood as Robb Stark sighed and urged his horse into a gallop to locate his siblings before they caused too much trouble for themselves. At thirteen and fourteen, Bran and Arya were hellions beyond their parents or siblings’ control.

“How long do you think it’ll be before he finds them?” Jon asked from Jeyne’s other side, a hint of an amused smile gracing his lips as he spoke.

“Five minutes seems a generous enough number,” Jeyne wagered, tightening her grip around her reins as snow began flurrying down upon them, the woods quiet now that they had been left alone. Jon and Jeyne had spoken a few times since her return to Winterfell, though none seemed to be so significant that it left much of an impression. “Don’t you think?”

“Five minutes?” Jon repeated incredulously, his horse clopping happily beside hers as snowflakes clung to his dark curls. “They’re faster than that. I’ll give them thirty.”

“What are we betting then, my lord?” Jeyne smiled, unable to help but humor the conversation.

“I never took you for a gambling woman, Jeyne,” Jon stated, and Jeyne nearly fell off her horse at the degree of familiarity that he spoke to her in, almost as if he was fond of her to some extent. They had known each other for their entire lives and she didn’t think he had ever once called her by her first name alone. If she didn’t know any better, she would take a gander that he was flirting with her; for a man that was so determined to join the Night’s Watch once his legitimate brother was wedded, he seemed to forget himself. “I’ll put a silver stag on the line if you will.”

“A silver stag it is, then,” Jeyne smiled shyly at him as if they wouldn’t both be dipping into Lord Eddard’s coin purse to pay off the debt once the matter was settled. She was quite honestly just shocked that he was speaking to her at all, given how reserved he always was.

By the time twenty minutes had passed, Jeyne resigned herself to having to admit defeat.

Jon never asked for the payment from her, even they unsaddled their horses right beside each other in the stables, though the look he cast her afterward seemed to speak a thousand words.

viii – a chance

She was carding through her favorite storybooks in Winterfell’s library when she spotted Jon entering, slinking into the room as quiet as he always was, though the sound of his footsteps gave him away. Rather than make for a bookshelf, he merely crossed the room to the scribe’s table, digging through a mound of papers for one that held a particular significance to him.

“I never took you for much of a poet, Lord Snow,” Jeyne remarked teasingly as he stared down at the page, taking great amusement in how he jumped at the intrusion. Mayhaps making light of his circumstance was inappropriate, but she found that she didn’t care now that they felt like true friends and not just tolerated acquaintances. “What is it that you’re reading so avidly, my lord?”

He flushed and glanced back down at his prize as if he couldn’t help it. “A letter from my uncle.”

“The one at the wall?” She inquired, surprised that it wasn’t from a girl at the winter town or something of the sort. “I didn’t realize you were still considering taking the black, my lord.”

Jon’s smile was weaker this time. “I’m not.”

She cocked her head with confusion. If he was so upset about it, why didn’t he just leave?

“Lord Stark thinks I should… reconsider my options,” Jon phrased himself carefully, though traces of bitterness did escape through his tone about halfway through his sentence. “But I doubt you want to hear about such matters, my lady. Uncle Benjen writes to all of us when he can.”

She nodded with understanding, her eyes flicking back down to his letter before meeting his gaze once more, something familiar coiling in her stomach at the intensity in his own.

His hair had been grown a little longer than he typically allowed, twirling gracefully at the ends as if he was a work of art carved by a stonemason rather than a man grown. He was still quite… beautiful. As much as he had been when they were younger, if not more now that he had grown into his looks somewhat, his patchy beard having sprouted into a proper one with age.

Their eye contact lasted a bit longer than was necessary, an unspoken frustration dancing between them for reasons that Jeyne couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

She knew that she was pretty—boys told her as much when she passed them by in the winter town market—but felt insecure at the sudden scrutiny; was her hair alright? Her dress was a little plain, though she hadn’t anticipated running into anyone when she had gotten dressed. Should she have dabbed some rouge to her cheeks before coming to the library?

“I should take my leave,” Jeyne found herself saying, though she wanted nothing more than to sit with him and speak at length about his uncle. He nodded sagely and didn’t attempt to stop her as she scurried away from him, forgetting all about her quest to find a new book to read.

ix – an infatuation

Noticing Jon came rather naturally to Jeyne after a while, whether it was in the Great Hall at breakfast or when she would pass the men as they were training, now using edged blades rather than the dull ones that they had practiced with as boys. She scarcely saw Jon elsewhere and made excuses to cross his path as often as she could. Her affections for him had far surpassed physical admiration by this point, delving into territory that was rather dangerous to her heart.

She couldn’t help but fan the flames of her fondness for him herself, often imagining what it might feel like to kiss him just one time. Jeyne had never been kissed before—a pitiful realization considering that most women her age were married with squealing babes.

She liked to imagine that his beard would tickle her cheeks, his lips soft and plump and pliant against hers.

Though she would never have admitted it to anyone, there were a few occasions where she pleasured herself thinking about him, too consumed by shame at her treacherous mind to ever give those thoughts a voice.

It was difficult not to love Jon as much as a girl might love a boy with whom she rarely spoke, but sometimes, she would look up at him to see his eyes already trailed onto hers. Moments like that inspired hope within Jeyne, hope that she could never confide in Sansa or Arya about given their relation to him.

And so, Jeyne kept her affections to herself.

x – a gift

Hidden deep beneath the large clothing chest in her tiny chambers, Jeyne stowed away a gift that she had spent hours on end crafting in the dead of night. She didn’t dare leave it where anyone could find it, especially not since her rooms were so close to where Sansa and Arya were lodged.

Both of them would scorn her for her feelings, she just knew it, and couldn’t risk the mockery that would come with admitting to fancying Jon. Arya would likely yank the hair from Jeyne’s scalp if she knew of this despite their newfound friendship, and would surely go running her mouth to Jon about it. Jeyne wasn’t made of strong enough stuff that she could handle such a rejection now.

Instead, she would keep her affection for him close to her heart, never for him to know but merely there as a comfort to Jeyne while she waited patiently to see what her fate had in store for her.

She pulled a scrap of grey fabric from beneath a pile of her childhood toys and books, straightening the edges of it gingerly as she looked upon her creation with soft eyes and an even softer heart. It was a favor, not expertly made as she would have liked, but pretty enough with the inverse of his house’s colors: a white wolf against a gray banner. Jeyne had sewn red into the beast’s eyes diligently, trying to mimic the direwolf that followed Jon Snow around the castle.

She had considered gifting it to him from time to time but could never muster up the courage.

xi – a prayer

Prayer was always a comfort to Jeyne in troubling times, especially now that Robb’s betrothal to Margaery Tyrell was all but set in stone. Next would be Sansa and Jeyne would follow.

How long would she be able to call Winterfell her home?

In all of her seventeen years, she never thought that leaving this castle would bring her such pain. A part of her wished never to leave and to grow old here as her father had done, and his father before him, though she knew that all he hoped for her was that she might be able to travel as he had never gotten to do in his youth. Leaving the North could make history for her small house and yet, Jeyne found herself craving the simplicity that came with being a steward’s daughter.

_Let me be happy_, she prayed to the Old Gods as she clasped her hands in front of her chest, Sansa’s head bowing beside hers as they attempted to will their fantasies into existence. Squeezing her eyes shut, Jeyne wished not for a romance from the songs but for a life of joy, peace, and relative comfort. _I don’t need gold or riches or anything special. Just give me a man who loves me and rosy-cheeked children to fill our home. Let me find happiness._

xii – a lookout

Jeyne was putting both of their reputations into jeopardy by agreeing to do this.

As if turning a blind eye to what she had come to realize was not just an innocent dalliance wasn’t enough to damn her to each of the seven hells, Jeyne had somewhat stupidly agreed on helping Sansa to sneak around with Theon Greyjoy.

She had all but caught them in the act in the godswood a week prior and out of the love she bore her friend, swore herself to silence.

If an affair with her family’s ward brought Sansa happiness, then it was her prerogative.

Lady Stark might not see it the same way if she knew, but she doubted that Sansa cared much at all about marriage and propriety as she once did; now, she only seemed to care for her immediate gratification with her new lover, caring little about whatever match her family would make for her anymore. It was odd to see Sansa behave in such a manner, but she couldn’t fault her for it.

What she didn’t realize was she would be made to stand outside of Sansa’s chamber doors while Theon did whatever it was that he was doing to her inside her quarters.

She felt like a watchdog and an intruder all at once but couldn’t deny Sansa this favor when she asked it of her so pleadingly.

For years, Sansa had scrunched her nose up at his antics, not seeming to even like Theon Greyjoy, let alone fancy him in any regard. She once thought him to be lewd and distasteful, often gossiping about his conduct in the castle as if she truly loathed his presence here.

Now, she was moaning so fervently for him that it brought a deep blush to Jeyne’s cheeks to even hear for herself. Jeyne gulped as she heard a stream of filthy words escape the man’s lips while he groaned so loudly that she feared the whole castle would hear their rendezvous.

The faint sound of skin slapping against each other made her cringe to hear, so much so that Jeyne half considered abandoning her post out of secondhand embarrassment.

Sansa was not a maiden anymore by the sound of things, and likely hadn’t been for quite some time.

Did either of them know what they were risking by sneaking around like this? By compromising Sansa’s virtue before she even had a betrothal lined up for herself? She feared facing ramifications for enabling the pair to meet like this, but who was Jeyne to stand in the way of her closest friend’s happiness?

It was not her place to intervene, she told herself again and again until she finally believed it.

Jeyne sighed, attempting to tune out the noises of lovemaking coming from the room in favor of delving into fantasies of her own, of clandestine meetings and stolen kisses with a man who had the prettiest eyes Jeyne had ever seen. _Jon_, she imagined her lips curling around the name in the midst of a chaste kiss.

A gasp of unbridled ecstasy coming from Sansa’s chambers snapped her out of that dream as if by force. Gods, were they always this loud? Jeyne tried not to feel annoyed with her friend, telling herself that love wasn’t something one could ignore. If it was, she doubted Sansa would have chosen to fall for Theon in the first place. She was happy (_very_ happy, the sound of it) and that was all any girl wanted from romance, was it not?

Sansa was the culprit, and Jeyne was the lookout, just like when they were children. 

xiii – a kiss

Mayhaps it was a mistake to drink so much wine in one sitting, but Jeyne couldn’t help but laugh uproariously as she knocked into Lord Glover by accident. Theon quickly reached for her elbow, as if sensing that she might tip over if not supported somehow; it was his fault anyhow, as he had spun her just a little too far in the folk dance that everyone was immersed in performing now.

She wandered away from him as he apologized under his breath to the other man, fancying that she would like to fill her goblet with water to clear her head some.

Theon was already pulled back into the dancing by a coy-looking Sansa by the time Jeyne had the sense to glance back at her abandoned partner. He grinned as the auburn-haired girl pulled him just a little too close to seem entirely innocent, but she doubted anyone would notice.

It was a celebration, after all.

The heir of Winterfell was married, and to the most beautiful girl in the realm, at that.

Many thought that King Robert would marry her for himself, but he had shocked nearly everyone in the realm by marrying some poor Lefford girl from the Westerlands instead. Some said that it had been done to pacify Tywin Lannister, though he had nearly tried to depose the king himself when his son and daughter had put on trial for charges of incest and high treason, and others said that he had dishonored the girl and was pressured to take her for a wife.

Whatever the reason was, Jeyne supposed Margaery Tyrell would be far happier as Robb’s wife than to that of King Robert. The North may not have been as luxurious as the capital likely was, but a handsome husband seemed a far better alternative than an old, drunken king in the South.

The girl was charming with a smile that could thaw through even the most frozen of hearts, her eyes sparkling even from a distance as she fed Robb a plum at the high table with all of the innocence of… well, it certainly didn’t seem like they would have much trouble in the marital bed, by the looks of it. Robb’s mouth closed around her fingers as he consumed the fruit with a vigor that Jeyne much rather wouldn’t have seen at all in spite of her drunken state.

The Tyrells seemed to adapt nicely to the North as they mingled with Lord Stark’s bannermen and lavished fine gifts upon them. The wedding was more expensive than anything Winterfell had ever seen, with singers and entertainers and a grand feast provided for by the bride’s family.

It was one of the best nights of Jeyne’s life, so she could only hope that she didn’t end it bent over a chamber pot. Some water would help her somewhat, she thought.

With winter roses threaded through her thick brown hair and a gown of ivory and grey trim, Margaery Tyrell was easily one of the most beautiful girls Jeyne had ever seen. She yearned to befriend her as Sansa had, and to perhaps (whispered Jeyne’s traitorously foolish mind) become her sister as well someday. Willas Tyrell _was_ handsome despite his leg, and likely wouldn’t be marrying Sansa now that their family was already bound to the Starks through one rose.

She ran into a firm body on her way back to her seat, though she might have made a wrong turn in her distracted thoughts of the future Lady of Winterfell and her family.

“Jeyne!” Jon Snow was standing before her, holding her arms with both hands to steady her. Suddenly, Jeyne felt her mind stop working abruptly as she thought of the favor buried at the bottom of the chest in her rooms. “Are you alright?”

“Wonderful,” Jeyne breathed out as soon as she came to. “Hello, Jon.”

At that, he cracked what she thought was an amused smile, though it looked a bit hazy through her lens of drunkenness. There was laughter in his eyes—his beautiful, soulful, lovely eyes. Gods, he was the most handsome man she had ever seen. “Hello, Jeyne. How are you doing?”

“I already told you,” Jeyne bit her lower lip in an attempt to stifle her girlish giggle, a fact that she already knew she would later feel mortified at doing. “Wonderful.”

His eyes shone in the light and suddenly, she felt giddy inside.

If Willas Tyrell was handsome, Jon Snow was _beautiful_.

“I’ve missed you, Jon,” Jeyne pouted without thinking much of anything she was saying, her confidence seeming to catch Jon by surprise as she rested a hand on his chest. She swayed on her feet as his brows drew together with puzzlement. “We should be better friends, you and I.”

“We’re already friends, Jeyne,” he reminded her gently, the ends of his lips quirking upward.

“Then mayhaps we should be more,” she retorted boldly. “I think you’re-”

A man in a similarly intoxicated stupor stumbled over Jeyne’s skirts then, causing her to go careening in Jon’s direction with surprise. He stopped her fall swiftly, gathering her in his arms as if he truly was a prince and not just the illegitimate son of the Warden of the North.

Her attentions were focused on him as he pulled her back up to her feet.

Their eyes locked, gray against brown, for just a moment before Jon was clearing his throat and stepping backward, though he maintained his hold on Jeyne to ensure that she didn’t fall.

“We should get you some water,” he spoke after a moment, his face blurring in her vision as he urged her forward, one step at a time. “Only a few steps further, my lady.”

She couldn’t comprehend anything that was happening except for the sounds of cheering, whooping, and a rather bawdy rendition of The Bear and the Maiden Fair. Suddenly, a cool rim of metal was pressed against her lips and water was gushing down her throat, slowly so as not to choke her. She gulped it down greedily, just now realizing how parched she truly was.

“Another,” she mumbled as her world spun on its axis.

Without a few seconds passing, her goblet had been refilled and Jeyne was drinking from it once more, steadied by the soft sounds of Jon’s laughter from beside her. “Having fun, then?”

At that, Jeyne couldn’t help but blush. “A bit.”

“I’m glad,” Jon assured her as if he could sense the embarrassment that was beginning to dawn on her through her drunken haze. “Do you need an escort back to your rooms, my lady?”

Without considering at all about how sweet it might be to get Jon alone, Jeyne could only fear what would happen if she vomited all over Jon’s shoes and tunic, effectively ruining the rather lovely way he was taking care of her now. She steadied herself through concentration.

If her father saw her in such a state, she would never hear the end of it.

She needed to ground herself.

“I’ll be fine, I think,” Jeyne assured him, her eyes finally focusing back in on his face. He looked equally concerned as he was amused, his eyes glazed over with drink —though it was likely far less than she had consumed— and his smile brighter than she had ever seen it. She could barely even stand to look at him, he was so lovely. “Thank you, my lord, for watching after me.”

Without taking a single moment to think through what could possibly contend for the most embarrassing moment of her life, Jeyne leaned up to press a chaste kiss to his lips in thanks.

He stiffened under her mouth, though the contact did not last very long.

Only when she leaned back to see Jon gaping at her did Jeyne realize that she had just _kissed_ Jon Snow rather than curtseying as she ought to have done. Her lips parted immediately upon realizing her error, every sound in the room heightened and drawn out as he opened his mouth to speak. Gods, gods, gods, what had she just done? How could she have done that?

Where was her dignity? Her shame? Her sense?

Before he could speak, she fled the Great Hall as quickly as she could, nearly stumbling over her own feet three times on her way back to her chambers.

xiv - a letter

Jeyne had ignored every knock at her door to come downstairs to break her fast, choosing instead to eat her meal in her chambers, as she was sure a number of the castle’s inhabitants had done after the events of the night before. She couldn’t hide forever, she knew, but she would rather die than face Jon after what had happened in her moment of weakness and stupidity.

She would never drink anything other than water again in her life if she could help it.

Gods, she wanted to hole up in these rooms forever. How would she face anyone after making such a mess out of things? Her first kiss and she had squandered it on a man who would never return her affections and would likely never be able to look her in the eyes again.

Suddenly, everything on her plate tasted unappetizing.

Jeyne pushed her eggs away from her unhappily as she willed herself to be able to get a do-over for the wedding. If the Gods had any mercy at all, they would just allow her to take it all back like it had never happened at all. She remained on the floor of her chambers for hours when she heard a shuffling outside of her door. It was probably Sansa or Arya, come to pester her about why she hadn’t come down to eat with them, or to jape about how badly she handled her drink.

A knock never came, however, but a sliding sound drew her attention towards the door.

It was a letter.

_Jeyne_, it read in a flowery hand that could only have come from someone truly learned.

No one had ever sent her a letter before, much less slipped it underneath her door. All of Jeyne’s wildest fantasies screamed to her that it might be a love letter of some sort, from a man whose head had been turned at the feast, but she calmed herself with assurances that it was perhaps Sansa’s way of drawing her out from her solitude. Right. This had to be Sansa’s doing.

Unable to help but tear it open, Jeyne fumbled with the letter, her heart pounding once she finally unwrapped the delicate paper to see its contents.

_Lady Jeyne,_

_I have been thinking about your kiss for hours without rest. I’m not sure how to write this sort of thing to you without making a mess out of it, so please forgive me if I do. You may not remember seeing me at all, but on the chance that you do, I would like to speak to you about what happened between us. If you were so inclined. You don’t have to, of course, but I hope that you do. I was hoping to see you this morning, but I recognize that you might not want to see me. On the chance that you might, not that you owe me any of your affections, I think that you are very beautiful and hope that you don’t think any less of me for not taking better care of you last night._

_Yours,  
Jon _

Her heart nearly stopped at every line, finally bursting in her chest as soon as she read the last lines he wrote, again and again, and again, until they no longer looked like words.

Unable to wrap her pounding head around any of it, Jeyne struggled to get back to her feet. Clutching the letter in her hand, she fumbled with her other to unbar the door before throwing it open.

He was not outside of her door anymore but couldn’t have gotten very far.

Opting to dash in the direction of the Great Hall, she sprinted along the marble floor, barefooted in nothing but her shift and a deep blue robe, haphazardly thrown on to preserve her modesty. A figure with dark hair was ambling along the corridor, thankfully alone, but spun around as soon as he heard the sound of her feet smacking against the ground rather ungracefully.

“Jeyne!” Jon drew in a breath as she launched herself towards him, hugging him for the first time in their lives. He hesitantly wrapped his arms around hers, mindful of her state of dress even now. When she merely tightened her hold on him, seemingly having lost every ounce of self-control now that it seemed that her feelings were returned, he breathed her in.

“Jon,” she murmured against his neck, not quite a kiss but awfully close to it. “Jon, Jon, _Jon_.”

“You read my letter then?” He breathed, a hitch in his voice as Jeyne burrowed closer to him, uncaring of any inquisitive eyes that could happen upon them if they weren’t careful.

She was mad about him and didn’t care who knew it anymore.

“You think I’m beautiful?” Jeyne drew back swiftly, disbelievingly, her feet hitting the ground with a thump as he set her down. She was flushed, a bright smile gracing her face and her hair loose in a manner that would normally humiliate her to be seen donning. His ears were tinged a rather delightful pink hue as she held onto him by his shoulders, a simple intimacy that neither of them had known before now. “Truly, Jon, do you?”

He looked a little embarrassed then but didn’t pull away from her. “I do. I thought you knew.”

“I didn’t,” she breathed out, eyes wide as he glanced around to ensure that they were alone.

When he cupped her cheek with all the tenderness of a springtime lover, Jeyne’s breathing stuttered, and her hand raised of its own accord to cover his with her own.

He leaned closer and brushed the softest of kisses against her lips, savoring in the contact as their mouths met.

The kiss was quick, but she found herself exhilarated at the mere feeling of him so close to her.

She tipped her head upward, her nose touching his as they absorbed one another. Unable to help but do it again, Jeyne kissed him soundly, just barely being able conceive that this was happening. He moved his lips against hers as they prolonged this one, his hand brushing gently over her cheekbone as if savoring the moment for himself.

Jeyne leaned towards his touch and practically melted when his eyes opened to lock with hers. His gaze felt like molten fire against steel, singing her where they stood.

“Meet me at the library,” she murmured impulsively. “After your father retires to his chambers.”

For a moment, she feared that he would misunderstand her incentives to get him alone, but her worries were quelled when he pressed a feather-soft kiss against her cheek.

“Yes,” he breathed out before she extracted herself from the embrace.

When she escaped back to her chambers, hopefully unnoticed, she could feel his eyes boring into her with all of the intensity of a winter blizzard.

xv – a secret

She giggled against his lips as he nipped at them, growing more confident in his kisses as he wound his arms around Jeyne. They leaned against the bookshelf farthest from the door, indulging themselves to the fullest as they lost themselves in one another.

“I’ve been dreaming about this since I was a girl,” Jeyne whispered against his lips, laughing elatedly as he nudged his nose against her cheek happily. He had shaved for tonight, looking more baby-faced than ever, though it made for a positively endearing sight. “You and me.”

“Dreams do come true then,” Jon retorted impishly in a rare show of his wit that had Jeyne pulling away and squealing with laughter. He quickly recovered, unable to stop smiling as he coaxed another kiss out of her. “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in my life.”

That couldn’t be true.

Both of his sisters turned out to be more beautiful than she was, not to mention Robb’s new wife looked like the Maiden come to life. Jeyne was pretty, it was true, but she was far from _that_.

As if he could sense her line of thought, Jon’s hands lifted to cup her cheeks with his hands. He swallowed, breathing heavily as he leaned his forehead against hers. “I mean it,” he inhaled deeply as if he truly was enamored with her. “There’s no one like you, Jeyne Poole.”

She could have swooned at the words if not for his hands grounding her to reality. Instead, she settled on kissing him again, pouring all of her adoration and devotion into the act.

xvi – a proposal

“I want to ask your father for your hand,” Jon spoke suddenly, his hand twining absent-mindedly through her hair as if the thought had just occurred to him. She knew Jon enough now to know that he must have been thinking it for hours to try to sound so nonchalant as he did.

Propping herself up from where her head was laid on his thigh, Jeyne twisted in her spot on the library’s loveseat to look at him. He had to be serious about it if he would even consider saying such a thing aloud, but she couldn’t help but need to look at him to make sure.

Over the fortnight since they had first kissed, they had done nothing but exchange sweet, chaste touches around various corners of the castle in fleeting moments of privacy such as this, not daring to do anything more at the risk of compromising Jeyne’s honor. He had braided and unbraided her hair several times over as she read a poem aloud to him, both of them quite enjoying the art of poetry more than anyone else in the castle did.

He always surprised her in the best of ways, especially when he would quote passages from love sonnets to her as they would pass each other in the castle. It was perhaps the most romantic thing Jeyne could have ever asked for and yet, the more he did it, the harder she fell for him.

She had yet to tell him what she knew of Theon and Sansa, suspecting that Jon would probably kill the man if he knew anything about how close they had gotten in the past months.

For now, though, she could only gaze at him with unbridled affection. “You would marry me?”

“I know I’m just a bastard,” Jon clasped her hands in his own adoringly, holding them up to his lips as if to kiss them. “And you deserve better than the name Snow, but I love you as I’ve never loved anyone. My father— he would gift us a castle somewhere if I asked it of him, a home for us to make our own. I want a life with you, Jeyne if you would have me.”

Her eyes filled with tears at each declaration of love, hardly able to believe that he was truly saying any of this to her and that it wasn’t all a dream of her own fanciful concoction.

Once, she might have hesitated to trade a trueborn name with that of a bastard’s, but love overpowered every misguided desire she had once had to overcome her station. Her father might have dreamt that she would marry a hedge knight somewhere in the south, but the bastard of Eddard Stark was not so bad as that. Lord Eddard and her lord father were close friends, she knew, and it wasn’t as if bastards typically made matches akin to that of highborn children.

The match made perfect sense to her.

“Yes!” Jeyne launched herself into his arms without a care in the world. “Yes, I’ll marry you, Jon, I will. Our fathers, they have no reason to deny us this. We’ll tell them that we’re in love and they’ll-”

She was cut off by a tender press of Jon’s mouth against hers, passionate yet soft, much like Jon himself was. She couldn’t imagine a life without him in it, especially now that she held him deep in her heart. It was _this_—what she felt between them, that was love, unquestionably.

She would become Jeyne Snow in a hundred lifetimes if it meant that she could share each of them with him.

xvii – a dismissal

Jon had been arguing with his father in Lord Eddard’s solar for hours now, attracting even the attention of the servants ambling past the hall where they had sequestered themselves off in.

Jeyne was standing behind the wall, having spied on most of their discussion for herself. _I love her_, Jon insisted time and time again, though Lord Stark couldn’t even give him a clear reason for why the match couldn’t come to pass. She hadn’t thought that Lord Stark disliked her family so much that he thought her unworthy of even his baseborn son; if she was worthy enough to keep his daughters company and share their beds, why could she not marry into the family?

She jumped as the door swung open, her eyes wide as Jon stormed out of the solar.

He ignored Lord Stark as he called after him insistently, imploring him to come back so that they could talk through more palatable alternatives to rushing into marriage, and Jeyne shrunk into herself in hopes that she wouldn’t be seen eavesdropping by the lord of the castle she lived in.

xviii – a decision

She followed in Jon’s direction as soon as Lord Stark retreated into his rooms and shut the door behind him, seeming to think that giving his son time to cool off from the argument was the proper course of action. It had begun sleeting outside, the cool droplets of rain meshing with harsh pellets of ice coming out of the sky. His posture was rigid but he didn’t slow for anything, even as the servants and cooks fled towards the castle to shield themselves from the weather.

Jeyne had just caught up to him as he rounded the corner to the stables, seeming to saddle his horse with purpose, lifting her hood above her head to spare her head the pain of getting hit by any more ice. “Jon!” She called, though the thunder that sounded over their heads drowned her voice out. She dashed towards where he had disappeared, hoping to comfort him over the loss.

Mayhaps they couldn’t get married, but they could still enjoy each other’s company.

What Lord Stark might need was some more time to get used to the idea of them together; to see how fiercely they loved each other, and then he would have no choice but to betroth them.

“Jon,” she breathed out as her love, drenched to the bone with rainwater, attached a satchel to the saddle, one that he must have prepared in a haste on his way out of the castle.

He spun on his feet, a relieved sag to his shoulders when he realized that it was Jeyne trailing behind him. He crossed the distance between them within seconds, hugging her close to him as the wooden roof of the stables shielded them from the might of the rain and wind above them.

“He denied me,” Jon breathed against her neck as if he hadn’t asked her to wait for him outside of the room while he asked his father for permission to propose to her. “He denied _us_.”

“I know, my love,” Jeyne murmured, lifting a hand up to card it through his sopping curls.

Just as she was about to say something comforting, Jon grabbed her hands with his own, fiercer than she had ever seen him. A fire seemed to ignite in his eyes as he pulled her closer to him, desperation seeming to tinge his every breath. “Run away with me.”

“What?” Her response cracked out like a whip, unable to conceive of the thought of it.

He drew her into a searing kiss, more passionate than any that they had shared before. She felt her legs wobble underneath her as he pulled back, chasing his lips determinedly, intoxicated by the feel of them. “Run away with me, Jeyne. We’ll… we’ll go somewhere. We’ll get married and I’ll make you my wife, with or without my father’s permission. By the time we come back, he’ll have no choice but to bless our union. I want no other but you. I’ll have no other but you.”

Jon’s breath came out in an exhale as his hands cupped her cheeks. “Say yes, Jeyne, please.”

“You’re mad,” she breathed out, her heart twinging with pain when Jon’s raw gaze met hers again, mistakenly taking her words for a rejection. “Let me get my things.”

xix – a marriage bed

They found a priest to marry them at Deepwood Motte, offering him a small fortune in exchange for the service of wedding them. When they knelt before a weirwood tree and the plain cloak over her shoulders was replaced with Jon’s tattered one, she found that she didn’t need any pomp and circumstance to make her wedding special.

As he carried her all the way from the tree to the inn nearest to them, asking for the comeliest room they had, Jeyne had never felt so alive.

He deposited her on the bed gently, asking her close to a thousand times what she wanted before he undressed her, forswearing all of the vows he once hoped to take for the Night’s Watch in favor of the vows that came with taking a woman for a wife.

She had never been so grateful for Lord Stark’s insistence to keep his son close to home as she did when he held her close and murmured words of love and devotion to her, calling her ‘wife’ more times than she could count.

Jon entered her slowly after pleasuring her with his mouth, seeming to take her feelings and wants into account even when he had his own; he was the model of beauty, and kindness, and perfection made into flesh.

The tenderness he treated her with nearly brought her to tears, and she wondered how anyone could think of bastards as evil when Jon Snow had ever been born in the first place.

When they made love for the first time and then the second and then the third, the name Snow had never tasted so sweet on her lips.

xx – a return

They returned to Winterfell after spending a fortnight in each other’s arms, so deeply lost in their newly wedded bliss that they nearly lost track of time altogether.

The reception they got was not chilly so much as it was preoccupied. Even Lord Eddard had not seen them that night, locked away in his rooms with Lady Catelyn, heatedly discussing a matter of supposedly great importance. When Robb was similarly unavailable, as was everyone except for Rickon and the maester, Jeyne realized that something must have happened to cause such disorder in the castle.

Only Ghost had run up to them with the enthusiasm that they had expected, slobbering over Jon’s face as if he had been gone for years and not just a few weeks. He even licked a stripe up Jeyne’s face, showing a fondness towards her that he never had before.

Her father embraced her when she came before him in his quarters, practically weeping with joy at the sight of his daughter, unharmed.

Vayon’s face chilled as he caught sight of Jon lingering behind his bride, before he wrathfully demanded an explanation from him for what had happened to his daughter.

“I’ve married her, my lord,” Jon squared his jaw and looked into his father by law’s eyes, as if expecting the man to challenge him to a duel over the matter. “In the sight of the Old Gods, I cloaked Jeyne and made her my wife. I apologize that we didn’t send word earlier, my lord, and that I didn’t ask for your blessing. I would make it up to you in whatever way I can, be it a dow-”

“You’ve married her?” Her father sounded shocked, holding onto the doorframe for support with one hand, and clutching his heart with another as though he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “My Jeyne? You’ve married my daughter?” He seemed to be choking on air at the news, expecting that she had been made his mistress rather than his wife. “You did not dishonor her?”

Jon gulped and nodded, bracing himself for the storm to come. “I would never dishonor Jeyne-”

“Jon Snow,” he approached his son by law shakily, seeming to have all the answer he needed without anything else said. He had no patience for dallying now. “You have put an old man’s heart at rest. So long as your marriage is true, I wish- I wish you all the fortune in the world. Jeyne, sweet Jeyne, are you happy?”

Jeyne embraced her father without hesitance now. “Yes, Father, yes. I am his wife of my choosing, I promise you.” She assured him, breathing in deeply as they hugged. “I wanted to write, but we couldn’t risk being found out before we could run. I’m the happiest woman in all of the North, Father, I swear it.”

They parted with the promise of calling for an audience with Lord Stark at their earliest convenience, the air around them significantly lighter than it had been just moments earlier.

She shared Jon’s chambers that night, falling into his arms in a way that they had long waited to do in the comfort of their home at Winterfell.

xxi – a reception

The tension that they were met with upon entering the Great Hall was the likes of which no one had ever seen. Robb was seething to himself as his lady wife rubbed soothing circles around his shoulders, whispering to him sweetly as if something truly was the matter. Arya Stark was staring resolutely down at her bowl of oats, and even Bran and Rickon were quiet as they ate.

It was an unfamiliar sight for Winterfell for certain.

Jon cleared his throat upon their entrance, to which every member of the household in attendance looked up at them. Surprisingly enough, they were met with nothing but mild indifference.

Lady Margaery was the first to greet them, bounding up to them joyously to embrace them as one would a sister and a brother. Robb followed after his wife dutifully and Grey Wind trailed after him, moody and silent in their movements. “Lady Jeyne! My lord, Jon!”

At that, Arya’s eyes snapped up to stare at the pair of them, a fury crackling in them like no other. “Jon,” she addressed her brother coldly. “Or shall I say _traitor_-”

“That’s enough, Arya,” Robb interrupted her flatly, looking properly cross and still a bit angry, though it didn’t seem to be directed at either of them. He gifted Jon with a one-armed hug. “Brother. It’s good to see you. And Jeyne,” his smile warmed a bit as he gathered his goodsister in his arms, though he felt tense to the touch. “I wish you could have come at a better time. Things aren’t… going well, right now, I’m afraid.”

“I hear we might have cause for celebration, though?” Margaery hinted, her cat-like eyes darting between the pair of them as if waiting to hear confirmation to what had happened to prompt their disappearance from Winterfell. “Tell me I’m not misinformed, Lady Jeyne, I beg of you.”

Truthfully, Jeyne expected that there would be more of an outcry to their return, and to Jon having stolen her at all, especially after being denied permission to court her by Lord Stark.

Where was he anyhow? Where was Lady Stark? And Sansa, for that matter? Jeyne had anticipated that Sansa would be the first to greet her and yet, she was nowhere to be found.

“Jeyne is my wife,” Jon announced rather awkwardly in wake of the sudden silence in the room, the atmosphere of the Great Hall uncharacteristically unnerving even when he declared his marriage, his expression dropping as Arya’s fork clattered against her plate angrily. “It’s true.”

“You _married_ her?” Arya exclaimed, rising from her seat with such an outrage to her that even Bran scooted his chair back somewhat to avoid meeting the receiving end of her wrath.

Margaery clapped her hands together in an attempt to defuse the friction in the room. “How wonderful! I suppose that makes us sisters, Jeyne. Is that not the case, my love?”

“Yes,” Robb grumbled, softening somewhat as Margaery addressed him. For all that the match had been a struggle to make, he seemed properly enamored with his wife no matter the short time that they had been married. “It’s… Jon, we really must talk in private. Sweetling, would you-”

“Should we spoil the mood so soon into the morning?” Margaery Tyrell cooed, stepping closer to Robb and placing her hand on his chest as if they were the only two people in the room. His hand rested atop hers and they maintained their gaze for a moment before she gifted him with a meaningful look, sighing resignedly when Robb nodded to her slowly. “Very well then.”

xxii – a fallout

Robb shifted uncomfortably in his seat. They were in his solar, newly furnished for his and Margaery’s comfort in the now-rebuilt broken tower. Jeyne and Jon sat across from them confusedly, wondering what could have possibly happened to throw Winterfell into such chaos that their father and Lady Stark were hiding themselves away in their chambers.

“Sansa is with child,” Margaery eventually informed them, her thumb rubbing calming circles along Robb’s clenched fist. All of the air seemed to be sucked from the room at her words, the very thought of it too impossible to fully comprehend. “We have reason to believe that Lord Greyjoy fathered it. She didn’t even know until she got sick at the dinner table, the poor thing. Lord Stark is attempting to resolve the matter with them privately.”

Jeyne froze in place.

How could they be so careless?

“I’ll kill him,” Jon rose from his seat angrily, as if he meant to storm over to where Theon was likely being apprehended by Lady Stark for dishonoring her daughter and choke the life from him himself. Jeyne’s eyes widened as he made for the door, grabbing frantically at his sleeve to keep him from leaving. His eyes flashed with a fury not dissimilar to Robb’s. “I’ll kill him myself.”

“Jon!” Jeyne exclaimed, standing and tugging on his arm to stop him from making the matter worse. Things would only further devolve into chaos if he left now. “Jon.”

He calmed somewhat at the sound of her voice but remained livid.

“Getting angry won’t do you any good,” Robb sighed resignedly. “It’s up to Father now.”

They waited another three days before any news of the matter was made known to them.

Sansa rushed into the Great Hall, tears smattering her cheeks as she lunged for Jeyne, clutching her friend close to her as she described the events of the days past, of everything she had missed. “He’s going to let us marry, Jeyne,” she blubbered into her friend’s ear, snot and tears running down her face. “He almost didn’t, but- but we convinced him. I was- I was so scared, Jeyne.”

“I know,” Jeyne hugged her goodsister tightly to her as Arya glared at them from afar, still not having forgiven Jon for running off with Jeyne. She had mistakenly thought that bygones were bygones between the pair of them, but nothing compared to the rage she felt from the other girl every time she and Jon so much as looked at each other. “I know.”

xxiii - a meal 

When Theon Greyjoy came to the dinner table later that evening nursing a broken arm and a swollen eye, Jeyne glared at her husband, clearly the guilty party in this dispute with his split lip and bruised cheekbone.

Lord Stark and his wife had yet to join them, preoccupied with things far more important than keeping up appearances with the family while they sorted out their daughter’s marriage pact. It would be difficult to do this delicately, Jeyne knew, especially when Sansa’s pregnancy became more evident.

”You’re injured,” Sansa cried out, using the sleeves of her dress, a once precious thing to her, to dab at his eye as he sat down beside her. She nestled into his side despite the looks she received from nearly everyone in her family at the action. Only Arya seemed unfazed, though she lined up a spoonful of gravy as if she meant to launch it at the pair. “Theon, who did this to you?”

”It’s nothing,” the injured man grinned at her, kissing her cheek softly as Robb set his dining utensils down, seemingly put off his meal by the gesture. “I’ll be fine, love.”

Jeyne nearly missed the glance he shot in Jon’s direction.

Sansa fretted over him, taking care to cut and feed each bite of duck to him gently when he could not do it for himself. Bran blinked with surprise at the sight, not having expected such affection from the pair, though he said nothing of the tender looks they gave each other in between bites. 

Robb’s face had practically turned red with anger at the sight of his sister feeding his closest friend and glanced between the two of them as if their relationship was a personal betrayal. When Sansa pressed a soft kiss to her lover’s lips, Rickon mimed gagging.

”Sansa,” Robb warned, as if he had any right to reprimand them for the same affection that Margaery showed him regularly.

”Theon is to be my husband,” Sansa reminded her brother haughtily. “If it pleases me to kiss him, then I shall kiss him.”

After that, neither Theon nor Sansa took much notice of Robb’s gloominess; every now and then, Jeyne would see Theon’s hand slide up from beneath the table to rest on her flat stomach, caressing it as if the babe they had created was more real than any of the people they were sitting with.

They shot lovelorn glances at each other in between bites of food, seeming unbothered by the disorder they had caused for the past few days now that their betrothal was all but set in stone.

Margaery Tyrell steered the conversation from there, declaring that they _must _commission a wedding cake with lemon cream filling from Highgarden for the upcoming wedding, to which the mood seemed to lift somewhat. 

Jeyne found herself squeezing Jon’s hand under the table as Sansa and Margaery gushed over the celebration to come, wondering how many weddings this castle could see in such short a period. 

xxiv – a confession

Jon was called into Lord Eddard Stark’s solar once more after news of Theon’s pending betrothal to Sansa had swept through the castle, but this time, Jeyne accompanied him inside.

The man was busying himself with writing letters, presumably to King Robert, to inform him of the decision.

The way it had been described to her was that binding the Greyjoy heir to Sansa would ensure that the Iron Islands would never rebel against the Crown again, and that it wasn’t the worst match in the world for a girl of her station; with no princes left for her to wed, anyhow, it wasn’t so unappealing a match that it couldn’t be rationalized for political purposes.

At least it was a love match. 

Jeyne wore her most demure dress for the occasion, a deep grey and white as if to represent House Stark as best as she could for her husband. She squeezed into her seat beside Jon and waited with bated breath for Lord Stark to say something—anything.

“I promised your mother that I would protect you,” Lord Stark spoke without raising his eyes from the missive he was writing. “That I would do whatever was in my power to keep you from harm’s way. Perhaps honesty would have spared us this conversation.”

At that, Jeyne bristled.

She was hardly a commoner. Was she that ill-suited a match to Jon that Lord Stark would speak of her like that in front of her very face? Jon seemed a bit caught on the first phrase that he had said though, his expression as peeled open as if he was just a vulnerable boy seeking a truth he could never know.

He had told her once that his mother was the greatest mystery of his life.

He anguished over what had become of her; whether she lived, whether she _cared_…

“My mother?” Jon repeated slowly. “I don’t understand.”

Lord Stark sighed and turned to Jon with pain and regret flitting across his features. He bowed his head, as if he thought to launch into an explanation. Then he looked Jon in the eyes and opted instead to give it to him straight. “My sister, Lyanna Stark.”

Jon reeled backwards as if he had been struck.

“I found her, bleeding out, with a babe in her arms. She told me she didn’t want to die,” Lord Stark shook his head and Jeyne could scarcely believe what she was hearing. “That she wanted me to protect you. Promise me, she said, and I did. I named you as my bastard and brought you to Winterfell, to protect you. My sister loved you, Jon, and-”

“And my father?” Jon summoned up the courage to speak, though he was breathing heavily with what could have been anger or unshed tears, or a blend of both. “Did my father love me?”

Jeyne’s mind reached the conclusion Jon had gotten to the moment that Lord Stark confirmed it aloud, seeming exhausted beyond his years. “I’m not sure.”

xxv – a betrayal

“He lied to me,” Jon whispered after nearly an hour of silence. Jeyne had yet to fall asleep, plagued by the burden of the information placed on both of their shoulders. Jon was a Targaryen, by birth and law, though the king sitting on the throne would see him dead for it if he knew. Jon was laying on his back, staring up at the canopy above them. “All my life, he lied.”

She wrapped a tentative arm around his waist, cuddling closer to him in her best attempt at comfort. She had never seen him so troubled by anything before.

“A Targaryen,” he spat with disgust. “How can you even bear to touch me?”

At that, Jeyne tightened her arms around him, unable to conceive of loving someone based on something so fickle as a name anymore.

“You aren’t a Targaryen if you don’t wish to be.” When he scoffed in response to her words, she grasped at his cheek to get him to look her in the eyes. When he did, his eyes were demented by the knowledge he now had to live with. “Stark, Targaryen, Snow, Sand,” she murmured, peppering a kiss to his lips in between every word. “Your name doesn’t matter to me, my love. You are _Jon_, no matter which name you wear, and you are good and kind and loving.”

He shuddered as she spoke, tears rolling down his cheeks as if they would never stop.

Jeyne’s heart broke for him, so lost at finally knowing the secret that had haunted him for his entire life. His mother had been here all along, in a statue underground, and he had been none the wiser.

Perhaps Lord Stark’s honesty would have spared him this pain. 

“How do you know?” Jon croaked out, his words wavering as she nuzzled closer to him. “How do you know that I am good when my father… when my father…”

“Your father didn’t rape your mother, Jon,” Jeyne furrowed her brows. “Lord Stark said it himself. They were married before a septon. There’s proof, my love.”

Jon squeezed his eyes shut. “The both of them,” he inhaled sharply through his nose. “My mo- my _mother_ and my father. They let the realm burn for something so selfish as their love. My grandfather, my uncle—they died, all because they ran off together.”

She supposed there was an irony in how they themselves had eloped, with Jon stealing her in the night just as his supposed father had done to Lyanna Stark, but didn’t dare voice that thought aloud. It would only serve to drive Jon into a darker place than he was already in.

“Your father is Eddard Stark, Jon, no matter whose seed produced you.” Jeyne swore to him, more passionate than she wagered she felt about anything other than him. “He raised you as his own, just as he did with all of his children. You are his son, not Rhaegar Targaryen’s.”

“Jeyne…” Jon whispered brokenly, turning on his side to bury his face into her neck.

“Jon,” she murmured back, clutching him close to her before withdrawing the slightest bit. Shyly, she reached into her sleeve to procure an object she had just managed to wrangle back from Arya’s now-lone chambers while she had pointedly ignored her. It was her favor, the one she had stitched nearly a lifetime ago with the white wolf. She pressed it against his heart, imperfect just as they both were, Jon and Jeyne, together. “For you.”

He took one look at the fabric and his face crumpled.

When she rocked him back and forth in her arms, weeping as he had never done before, he thanked her profusely amidst his tears.

She held him as he cried, clutching at her bosom until the sun rose. He needed her now, as he never had before, and she would not fail him if she could help it.

More than ever, Jeyne wished that they could simply unlearn what they had been told and go back to the marital bliss they had felt at Deepwood Motte, when he was nothing but a bastard and she was just a steward’s daughter.

xxvi - a choice

Nothing shocked the North so much as when Lord Stark refused the call from King Robert.

Daenerys Targaryen had arrived at Westeros with an army at her back and rather than fight for his lifelong friend, he chose instead to fight for the nephew he had raised as a son. The truth had been easier to come to terms with over the moons that it took her to cross the Narrow Sea at all, Lady Catelyn being the first to find the truth out for herself after Jon.

Though she remained chilly towards him to the public eye, Jeyne had overheard Lady Catelyn praying at the godswood rather than the sept built specifically for her, begging the Gods for forgiveness. Sansa and Theon were wedded swiftly after the news had first been broken to them, under the guise of preparing for wartime, though rumors took root throughout the realm they had conceived a child out of wedlock. It seemed that the threat of death outweighed that of petty politics by the time that Daenerys Targaryen had rallied House Martell to her side.

Lord Stark admitted the truth to his bannermen in his own hall, providing as much evidence as he could manage; a hidden letter from Lyanna Stark, received too late to alter her fate, a High Septon’s journal detailing her elopement, and Howland Reed, a man who had seen it for himself.

And so the banners were called, rallying the Riverlords to the Northern cause through Lady Stark, lying in wait to bend his knee to the Mad King’s daughter despite his honor and the outcry he received for such a decision. Even Torrhen Stark had knelt when dragons crossed the border, having the sense not to allow the entire country to suffer on account of the famous Northern pride, though Robb had been vocal in his opposition to the decision.

Balon Greyjoy refused to recognize the marriage between his son and Sansa, and so, it seemed that the ironborn would name themselves as independent until someone brought them to heel.

The Tyrells had the sense to realize what side would prevail in the fighting and refused to abandon the daughter they had sent to the heart of the North, and so began a blockade of food to the capital from the Reach. They planned to bend the knee for the Targaryen with her dragons, out of self-preservation just as everyone else did.

For a short time, the continent was war-torn.

Jeyne had never cared much for war, in the stories or otherwise. All she knew as Jon was fitted for armor with a direwolf emblazoned on the breastplate was that her heart would die if any harm came to him. When he left with Lord Stark and Robb to guard the borders of the North and ensure that their lands were protected, he did so with her favor tucked to his breast and her kiss on his lips.

Jon Arryn, Balon Greyjoy, Stannis Baratheon, Tywin Lannister, and Robert Baratheon all met their ends fighting various foes. The Dothraki, the Unsullied, the Dornish, the dragons.

And so, new rulers arose while the old perished.

Tyrion Lannister had been named the Warden of the West, having wedded a whore upon his father’s death, and Renly Baratheon bent the knee to Daenerys in a betrayal of every claim that his family had made to protect what they had conquered over twenty years earlier.

Lord Jon Arryn’s son, a whimpering little thing, bent the knee to her as soon as she looked the Vale’s way, preferring to live than meet the same end as his father. Theon Greyjoy joined his sister in bending the knee to her as well, having maintained some semblance of the Iron Islands for him and Sansa to preside over with an heir on the way.

Before long, her eyes turned to the North.

xxvii - a name

Jon’s parentage ended up being what saved them when Daenerys Targaryen flew northward to investigate the claims of his blood for herself. Her dragons circled over top Winterfell as she stormed through the opened-gates, flanked by hundreds of guards at her back.

When Lord Stark greeted her at the gates, she gave a rather frightening speech about how he had deposed of her father, and that justice would typically decree that she punish him for the crime.

At the last moment, however, she described that two of her closest counselors had seen for themselves what damage her father had dealt to the realm. “My father was an evil man, Lord Stark. I would see the realm heal, not bleed. Bend the knee and the North shall be spared.”

Once he complied, stating that he would see his children safe from the horrors of wartime, she declared him to be the Warden of the North, as if he wasn’t already. When she embraced Jon as warmly as her reputation allowed, she allowed her eyes to flit to Jeyne judgmentally.

“And who might this be?” She inquired, her voice as biting as the cold once was in the dead of winter despite the smile on her face. Her furs blew with the wind, more beautiful than Jeyne could have ever imagined she would look, even with all the songs written about Targaryens.

“My wife, Jeyne Snow,” Jon responded gruffly, not meeting his aunt’s eyes as he introduced his wife to her, seemingly afraid that she would be taken away from him if he let her go.

“Snow?” Daenerys frowned, eyes darting over to Lord Stark’s. “I would name him a Targaryen.”

Jeyne could feel Jon recoil from beside her at the word, and a similar hesitance ensued as Lord Stark fumbled through a polite rejection of the offer. “Your Grace, Jon Snow has no intention to rule. He is no threat to your claim to the throne in any way, I assure you-”

“My claim?” Daenerys interrupted the older man. “The throne is mine already, Lord Stark.”

“I meant no disrespect, Your Grace.” Lord Stark assured her. “Only that this is his home.”

“Then I would see the Targaryen line restored,” she narrowed her eyes at Jon, appraising him as if he were some object rather than her flesh and blood, though there was a warmth to how she looked at him. “I would name you Jon Targaryen, should you accept my offer.”

Jon was not so foolish as to decline the demand phrased as a request.

“I accept,” he gritted out, though it clearly pained him to do so. “Your Grace.”

xxviii – a home

Wartime had come and gone, as had the seasons. Summer came once more as the Tyrells poured enough gold into the North that Moat Cailin was rebuilt into the great stronghold that it once was. A gift for their prince, Mace Tyrell had claimed in an attempt to curry favor with the new queen. She was content to allow the Targaryen line to blossom in the North, where Jon’s presence was not near enough to threaten her but was not so far that she felt pressured to marry.

Jon and Jeyne settled into their new home, leagues away from Winterfell but still in the North, with smallfolk building their own lodgings around the castle as the years passed them by.

Often times, Jeyne pretended that their name was still Snow; that their babes weren’t princes and princesses, as she once would have once prayed for. What they had was love, deeper and truer than anything Jeyne had ever felt in her life; even after six years of marriage, they found that the home they had built together was incomparable to any material possession in the world.

They lived a simple life together, one unmarred by politics and wartime.

A dark-haired, fat-faced babe crawled about the ground in a pink frock as Jon laid on his stomach in front of her and moved colored blocks in different directions for herm entertainment.

Their little girl was named for her aunt, who had recently gone off on a voyage with some commoner blacksmith in what had just become the talk of the North. Poor Lady Stark had endured enough scandals to last a lifetime, but her youngest child’s namesake had never made things easy for anyone before, nor would she now that she was a woman grown. Gendry seemed to be a sweet man from what her letters described of him, though they had yet to meet in person.

“Sweetling,” Jeyne called out as she approached Jon and their daughter with a blanket in hand while their eldest child stomped about, causing havoc as he always did when he felt he wasn’t being paid enough attention. “Wrap Arya up before she gets a chill.”

Jon grinned as the fabric was tossed into his face, complying with her command as she scooped Benjen off the ground, tickling his sides as he squealed aloud. The brown-haired boy had Jon’s eyes, a cloudy grey that had all of Jon’s color and none of his melancholy; a mischievous glint seemed ever-present in the little boy’s stare, even at the tender age of five years old.

Jeyne deposited Benjen on the ground beside Arya, grinning as he grabbed onto a fistful of her hair as if to stop her from leaving him with his father and sister. She squealed as the child spluttered at her incomprehensibly, kneeling beside him to dislodge his hand from her hair. After a few moments, she managed to secure her freedom, only for Ben to turn his ire onto his father.

When Jon tugged her to the ground beside him and pressed a quick kiss to the side of her head, Jeyne couldn’t imagine a life better than the one she was living.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on tumblr at targaryenstyrell! Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated.


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